


Nice And Easy (You Make Me Lose My Mind)

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: First Time, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Suspenders Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian answers the door wearing suspenders. This leads to sex. Of course it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice And Easy (You Make Me Lose My Mind)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhatTheBodyGraspsNot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot/gifts).



> For the lovely whatthebodygraspsnot, who, when I inquired about birthday requests, said, "there's never enough Evanstan porn! also can there be suspenders?" Yes. Yes there can. <3

“Hey,” Chris says, breathless.  
  
Sebastian’s answered the door grinning. Sebastian’s answered the door grinning and apparently only semi-dressed—a white t-shirt and far too fitted pants and suspenders of all things oh dear God—  
  
Sebastian’s still grinning at him. Like the unfolding of a newborn universe: limitless temptation.  
  
They’re standing in the doorway of Sebastian’s New York apartment. An unremarkable hallway behind him. A second date ahead of them— _second_ , oh God again, past the shy fluttering first-hope palpitations over Starbucks and finger-glances that sent sparks down to his core—and real dinner out and reservations and—  
  
Sebastian, propping one shoulder casually against the pale doorframe, looks like the embodiment of every mortal sin. Hard liquor and reckless betting on cards that’ll always turn up hearts. Lust.  
  
Oh, yes. Oh yes. Lust. And those suspenders, elastic and stretched over gym-honed shoulders.  
  
Sebastian looks up at him, shy—Chris hasn’t quite figured out the depths of that shyness, not yet, so bewitching and bashful and mischievous at once, but he wants to know, he wants to know the same way his body wants to breathe, oxygen in his lungs—and offers, “Would you like to come inside?”  
  
Chris, as if in a dream, does. Because he _would_ like to. Very much.  
  
Sebastian closes the door. Aims a smile and a tilted eyebrow his way. “So. You and I…I did tell you that I would like to take this slowly. You and I.”  
  
“Yes,” Chris whispers. Yes. He knows. God, he knows. Sebastian’s known enough else, been through enough assumptions about prettiness and lush lips and slim legs, that anything other than considerate and gentlemanly isn’t an option. Not if he means it, not if he’s here for the long haul, not if he’s here for every nightmare and every laughing hand-wave in the face of interview questions about Sebastian's undiscussed childhood.  
  
He says, “I brought you something,” because he did, he has. He holds out the box.  
  
Nebula-blue eyes—Sebastian loves astronomy, has talked about black holes and quasars, has prompted Chris to read articles on the terraforming of Mars in self-defense—sparkle appreciatively, astonishedly. “You didn’t have to.”  
  
“Yeah, I—” His hand’s cold. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”  
  
Sebastian takes the offering. Opens the box. Laughs, rich and treasure-bright in evening velvet. “Really?”  
  
“You said Captain America should know about cronuts. In that panel. I, um. Don’t know a whole fuckin’ lot about cronuts. But you like chocolate.”  
  
Sebastian looks at the four chocolate-drizzled pastries again. “I entirely do. Chris…you don’t need to bring me anything. I’d go anywhere with you. If you asked.”  
  
“But,” Chris says helplessly. “But I want to bring you things. Chocolate. Bizarre croissant-donut hybrid monstrosities. Everything.”  
  
Sebastian regards the box anew. Topaz-blue eyes consider cocoa-dusted sugary dough and quietude. The universe holds its breath.  
  
Sebastian says, “Everything,” and glances up, and those extraordinary eyes meet Chris’s, full of radiance.  
  
Chris swallows. Chokes ungallantly on a stray bit of breath.  
  
The moment extends gold-spun fairy-tale glitter, hovering.  
  
“We don’t have reservations until eight,” Sebastian says, very softly. Not breaking the gilded spell. “It is only seven-fifteen.”  
  
“It’s. Um. Yes?”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian agrees, and sets the box on the closest obliging countertop, and reaches out, and tugs him closer.  
  
Down the hallway, which looks as smug as only white-plastered expectant walls can. Into Sebastian’s bedroom—oh, fuck, Sebastian’s _bedroom_ —and over to the bed, which becomes instantly cleared of curious pillows and bookmarked script pages in one impatient arm-sweep. “I want you.”  
  
“You—wait, you mean you want—you sort of want—you want me to touch you, or you want to touch me, or—”  
  
“I want you.” Sebastian’s eyes are brimming over with joy. “You brought me cronuts. And I—well. You. Chris Evans. Yes, please.”  
  
“You want me,” Chris murmurs, standing beside the bed, standing beside the bed with Sebastian Stan smiling in his arms.  
  
His hands slide firmly over those powerful slim shoulders. Along elegant biceps. Sebastian’s breath quickens when Chris’s right hand slips up to the side of his neck and rests there.  
  
Chris says again, more certainly, “You want me.” Gets the nod.  
  
Sebastian’s still half-dressed, if indeed that’s meant to be half-dressed, if that’s not meant to be fully dressed and consequently to drive Chris more than half out of his mind with want. The suspenders ought to look unbearably ironic. Distressingly hipster. Horrifically stylish.  
  
They don’t.  
  
Chris’s voice, unbidden, scratches out hoarsely, “I want to fuck you until you can’t stand…”  
  
Sebastian’s answering smile’s a pirate flag unfurling, hidden and secret until assured of the lack of primed cannon on the other side, and then set free to fly wicked before the wind. “I very much approve of your idea.”  
  
Chris’s left hand lifts of its own volition. Sneaks under the closest suspender strap. Plucks it up. Lets it snap down. Like the tension in the air: crackling, bursting.  
  
Sebastian gasps. Not in shock. Out of desire.  
  
“You like that,” Chris realizes, half-believing, “you like me doing that, to you…” and does it again.  
  
“Yes.” Pale summer-sky eyes are huge. Scorched horizonless by lust. “Yes. _Da_. I—Chris—”  
  
“You like feeling it.” He can barely recognize his own voice. Is that coming from inside him, that possessive rumble of pure lust? “You want to feel it. You want to feel what I do to you.”  
  
“I—” Sebastian trembles, doesn’t back down, looks him right in the eye. “I want to be yours. _Vă rog_. Please, yes.”  
  
“Strip,” Chris whispers, and then, “wait. No. Not everything. Your shirt.”  
  
Sebastian blushes, sudden rose-sunset under golden tan, hidden fairness kissed by sunshine. Peels down his suspender-straps, tugs white cotton over his head, lifts straps back into place. Knowing what Chris wants.  
  
Of course Sebastian knows what Chris wants. Sebastian’s perfect. Here and now, and also always and forever.  
  
Chris slides his index finger under one strap. Black and taut. Texture over his finger.  
  
He lets it crack back. Hard. Elastic whip across surrendered skin.  
  
Sebastian catches breath. Not quite a sob. No, that comes on the ragged inhale when Chris eases the strap aside to investigate new pinkness.  
  
Chris kisses that spot. Lips. Beard, nuzzling. Roughness.  
  
Sebastian whimpers. Long legs wobble and give way. Chris scoops him up and eases him onto the bed. This could be an impertinence—he’s never even been in Sebastian’s bedroom before—but if it is it’s a welcome one. The shining bedside light and moon outside and eyes looking back combine to tell him so.  
  
“I want you,” Chris whispers, echoing Sebastian’s words from earlier. Probably too clumsy. Probably too awkward and not at all the right thing to say. But somehow exactly right anyway, from the answering grin.  
  
Sebastian walks hands up under Chris’s shirt, untucking, coaxing fabric into giving way. “Please. Now.”  
  
Chris doesn’t say the _are you sure_. Sebastian’s sure. The surety’s shining like comets in those eyes. In the eagerness of watching sheets and pillows. In the warm interested glide of expressive Romanian fingertips along his ribs.  
  
He says instead, because he’s an idiot, “If you, um, I mean, if you’re not—if you just really want the cronuts or whatever, don’t think you have to—I mean, we’re gonna be late for dinner, and you said slow, I mean—”  
  
The hands falter.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Chris says, “oh God, no, no, I want you, I just—”  
  
“I know,” Sebastian says, and leans up to kiss him, head tipped at an improbable beautiful angle. Those lips taste like sweetness and hope. “I know you just. And I love you for that. And I want you to fuck me, please.”  
  
Chris, frozen in an instant of iridescent joy, one hand balancing his weight on the bed and the other resting over Sebastian’s hip, says, “You love me.”  
  
Sebastian blushes like a valentine. Pink and demure and hinting at secret naughty desires. “I…oh, _rahat_ …I’m sorry, I know it’s too soon, I—pretend I didn’t, please, please tell me I didn’t say—“  
  
“No,” Chris says, having had a moment to think, extremely deliberately. And he enjoys the way endless gemstone eyes widen at the edict. “No, I don’t want to pretend you didn’t. I want to tell you I love you too. I want you to tell me you love me. While I fuck you. While you beg me. Um. I mean, if you want to. I do.”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth falls open. Gratifyingly speechless.  
  
Chris cocks an eyebrow at him. “That’s the opposite of talking, kid.”  
  
Sebastian’s lips shape words for a second or two without sound. “…yes? I mean yes. I want to. I love you. I mean… _wow_.”  
  
Chris has to laugh, partly out of relief. “Wow? Really? Also I love you.” He wants to say those words in every breath. To sing them from rooftops, with his guitar. To tapdance them in the rain, to tattoo them on his skin, permanent and indelible as truth. Chris Evans loves Sebastian Stan.  
  
“Oh, shut up, I can be American today if I want to be…if I can’t think because you’re distracting me…can you say that again? And do that again? With the—with my—”  
  
“Totally yes,” Chris says, “let’s see what other vocabulary you can come up with, golly, kid,” and Sebastian narrows eyes at him but is failing to not grin. “Is that a challenge?—very well. Accepted. Gee whillikers, Captain America, sir, you sure are swell.”  
  
Chris collapses into slightly horrified laughter, which because they’re lying on Sebastian’s bed together means that he collapses mostly atop Sebastian, shaking said bed with helpless merriment. “I’m…oh, God…sorry I asked…wait, fuck, am I too heavy, just shove me or something—”  
  
“I’m not.” Sebastian puts a hand into Chris’s hair. Gazes up at him, lying beneath him, amusement not gone but fading into something clearer and deeper. “Not sorry you asked, I mean. I _like_ laughing in bed with you. And you’re not heavy. I feel that I ought to be insulted by the suggestion, but in fact I’m extremely happy.”  
  
“Happy,” Chris echoes, Sebastian’s hand in his hair, eyes meeting eyes.  
  
“Extremely.” Sebastian wraps a leg around his waist, certain and assured and not afraid in the least. “I did say. _And_ I requested something.”  
  
“Impatient,” Chris says, sitting up. “Brat.” And then stops, heart skipping its upcoming beat. He’s joking, he meant the word as a joke, but whether Sebastian’ll hear that—  
  
Sebastian stretches, feline grace and dark hair and long limbs gloriously framed by midnight-colored sheets. “You may spank me for it later, then.”  
  
Chris continues to be frozen in place, albeit for an entirely different reason.  
  
Sebastian blushes a little. That self-deprecating shyness swinging back into view. Deference on display. “I’ve never actually—I mean, I’d let you—not _let_ you, I’d want to try, I think—the idea is—but if you don’t want to—”  
  
“Fuck yes,” Chris flails, “yes, yes, everything, I’ve never done that either but you said you like the idea and I like the idea and you like it when I play with your suspenders and you like feeling it and I like you feeling it for me, so oh God yes?”  
  
The hesitance vanishes. The universe lights back up. “Yes, then?”  
  
“Definitely yes,” Chris informs him, and slides a hand under the nearest suspender strap, the right one. Lifts, twists, snaps. Pinkness blooming over lovely skin. Sebastian’s breath catches, unguarded desire.  
  
Chris does it again, leaning over him there in the rumpled bed with the hush of the evening surrounding flushed bodies. Then pauses, thoughtfully. Runs fingertips over the strap. “You were planning to wear these tonight. You like them.”  
  
“…yes?” Sebastian’s panting, eyes huge and blue-black with need. “Even more now.”  
  
Chris laughs. Kisses him, swift and firm. “Do you like them because they’re like…restraints? The way they feel, holding you…” To illustrate, he presses the heel of his hand over the strap, black fabric scoring marks into fair skin. Sebastian tans easily but loses the tan easily as well, and at the moment his skin’s caught someplace in between, white gold and antique manuscript pages kissed by time. He adds, “We could _use_ them as restraints,” and hears the consequent gasp, not a protest but a please.  
  
“I could make you wear them,” he says, “afterwards. When we go out. And no one’ll know except us. But you’ll know, and I’ll know, that you’ll be thinking the whole time about your hands behind your back, or maybe tied to the headboard, while I fuck you until you can’t walk, and you’ll beg me for more…”  
  
Sebastian shivers, eyes even wider; but there’s a flicker of some other emotion amid the tumult, even while he doesn’t say no.  
  
Chris stops again. Leans down until his nose bumps Sebastian’s. Centimeters away, promises, “I love you. I know you said you want me. I know you asked for slow, before. I’ll stop if you say so. We’ll stop right now if you say so.”  
  
And Sebastian nods, listening, processing the words.  
  
Chris swallows. “That…are you saying stop? Now?”  
  
Sebastian blinks. “What…no! I only meant I understood. And thank you. But we’re good. You’re good. Go on.”  
  
“Are you—”  
  
“Am I sure? Yes. Are you? We might be late.”  
  
“Um,” Chris says, a bit guiltily. He’s been trying to not think about the time. He’d made a choice, Sebastian over his own anxiety regarding social situations and being on time for reservations and not letting anyone including restaurants down.  
  
And Sebastian’s smiling at him, not out of pity for the anxiety but with honest loving concern. Sebastian knows about comfort and discomfort and wants not being the same as needs. Won’t judge him. Never has.  
  
Sebastian does want him. Has smiled and brought him back here to the incredible bedroom and made a choice about desire and bravery and love. And will nevertheless set that all aside without complaint if Chris needs something else.  
  
The only course of action’s obvious, really. It’s not a choice. It’s not about guilt or self-sacrifice. Not in the slightest.  
  
It’s about the way his heart does a tiny excited flip inside his chest when he looks at Sebastian looking at him. It’s about the way Sebastian’s laugh’s found a home in Chris’s soul.  
  
He sits up more. “Clothes off. Please.”  
  
Sebastian starts to speak, stops, smiles. Understanding.  
  
Off the bed. Suspender-straps falling leisurely to his waist. Pants unfastened and shed with a sinuous hip-wriggle that Chris could never pull off in a million years. Sebastian often jokes about being clumsy, about walking into doorways or refrigerators, but that’s only half the story. He’s easily distracted, that’s true, and tends to sprawl limbs in every conceivable direction when relaxed, but Sebastian focused and on point and determined is a creature of fluid beauty.  
  
Just to hear it, just to say it, just to say it again, Chris says, “I love you.”  
  
And Sebastian kicks fabric away, comes back, fits himself between Chris’s spread thighs as Chris sits in place on the side of the bed. Standing there with expressive fingertips cupping Chris’s cheek, lifting Chris’s chin, Sebastian tells him, “I know you do, I love you as well, I know that too, _te iubesc_ , forever, and please fuck me now.”  
  
“… _so_ impatient,” Chris breathes, heart thumping between laughter and tears and elation. “Brat.”  
  
Sebastian smiles like banners again: daring everything, with him. “If you’d like. Sometimes.”  
  
“Bring me your damn suspenders,” Chris says. “And then come back here and let me tie you up.” He doesn’t intend for the last words to go up in tone, almost a question; but he’s not sorry his voice gives the emotion away. He’s asking. It’s not an order, even when it is.  
  
Sebastian gives him a surprised kind of smile, and does as requested, with sufficient alacrity that Chris has only barely got his shirt off, never mind his jeans. Sebastian tips that head to one side, contemplating. Chris starts to wonder what diabolical plans’re scampering behind blue eyes, and then doesn’t have time to wonder, as Sebastian drops to both knees, leans forward, and unfastens Chris’s jeans _with his mouth._  
  
“Oh _God_ —”  
  
“Well, my hands are occupied.” One hand waves crumpled black suspender fabric at him. “And I’m very good with my mouth.”  
  
“Wait,” Chris says, and puts a hand out, runs it through Sebastian’s hair as Sebastian kneels in front of him on the floor. “You are. Very good. And I love you. Not _why_ I love you. Okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian sighs, “you’d love me if we weren’t having the sex tonight, you loved me even when I asked you to wait with regard to having the sex, I know, Chris,” but those blue eyes are shining like shooting stars when they find his. Wishes come true.  
  
“Up,” Chris says, because it’s the only possible reply, and yanks him off the floor and shoves him—gently—down onto the bed. Sebastian lifts arms obligingly above his head; Chris plucks the suspenders out of his hand and ties the sloppiest knot of his life around flexible wrists. Sebastian tugs at the bindings experimentally, discovers that the knot’ll hold, and grins; Chris feels that grin ignite white-hot bonfires of lust and love under his skin, in the aching of his rigid cock, inside his heart.  
  
He rests fingers over Sebastian’s right nipple. Pinches lightly. Testing. Sebastian moans. Sebastian’s cock, beautifully thick and flushed, not quite as long as Chris’s but flawlessly proportioned, jumps.  
  
Chris tweaks that nipple again. This time Sebastian whimpers, legs spreading wider, beads of wetness appearing at the tip of that beautiful cock.  
  
Chris leans down. Licks. Tastes salt and sweetness and hot skin. Sebastian makes a noise someplace between a gasp and a scream. “Chris—”  
  
“I love you,” Chris says.  
  
“I know—” Trembling, strung out with need, luscious. Accent like rough music in the night. “I know you do, I love you, please fuck me—”  
  
Later he can tie Sebastian to the bed and lick him and suck him and torment those sensitive nipples until Sebastian comes, and comes again, sobbing his name. All of that, everything, later. Because they can.  
  
Right now it’s a first time. Maybe it’s not gentle and tender and delicate, but Sebastian doesn’t want that, not from the present babble of multilingual begging and swearing and pleading for more. Sebastian wants to be pushed and to push back, to belong to Chris, to feel the bite of restraints and the weight of hands.  
  
And Chris finds himself smiling, not just because he’s about to have sex with the man he loves more than the whole damn world, but because sex with Sebastian’s going to be so much _fun_.  
  
Sex. With Sebastian. He dives for his abandoned jeans. Fishes around in his wallet.  
  
Jewel-dark eyes stare at him from the bed. “What _are_ you doing?”  
  
“Um. Condom? Lube?”  
  
“You…brought a condom?”  
  
“No! I mean yes! Accidentally!” He buries his face in one hand for a second. “I knew you wanted to wait, I swear I wasn’t expecting—I just sort of had one from like forever ago—it’s probably ancient, even, I—oh fuck, it _is_ —”  
  
“…all right,” Sebastian says from the bed, wrists still tied but voice containing more than a hint of laughter. “I believe you. Take a breath. And go look in the top drawer of the right bedside table.”  
  
Chris obediently takes the breath. Looks. “…huh.”  
  
“Stop looking at those. I want _you,_ not my vibrators, inside me.”  
  
“That one’s purple. And…large…”  
  
“I told you I like sensation. There ought to be condoms…not too many, as I recall, but…”  
  
“…um. Right.”  
  
Not too many. Because Sebastian, in the wake of what _has_ been a string of too many nights gone wrong, too many men and women _only_ wanting that skillful mouth and initial bashfulness, hasn’t offered anyone this much in a very long time.  
  
The vibrators and cock rings and assorted other personal unshared toys, meeting Chris’s gaze, demand silently that Chris had better take damn good care of their owner, given all that trust. Chris has the oddest impulse to vow out loud to a collection of sex toys that, yes, he will.  
  
He might be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure they’re beaming at him as he closes the drawer.  
  
Lube, silky and slick over his fingertips; his hand on Sebastian’s cock, teasing ready stiffness with wet strokes. His hand lower, dipping between the curves of that tempting ass. Discoveries of intimate muscle, tiny bud relaxing and opening under his touch. One finger. Two. Sebastian’s making lovely little broken encouraging sounds, beckoning him on.  
  
The golden light of the bedroom, and the crisp crayon-box colors of the city night outside. Scripts and science-fiction paperbacks on the floor, colonizing the bedside carpet. The scents of need and skin and sweat and whichever lube he’s grabbed, something sweet and reminiscent of fruit. He pauses for a second, trying to identify the sensory memory; Sebastian blushes everywhere. “Blueberry.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I like blueberries!”  
  
“Learning new things about you all the time,” Chris muses, “blueberries, giant scary sex toys, me kissing your thighs…”  
  
“What—oh, all right…All right, yes, I like that as well. Chris?”  
  
“What,” Chris says, looking up with his head between Sebastian’s legs, lips exploring the inside of a knee.  
  
“…thank you.”  
  
“For kissing you? I like kissing you.”  
  
“For,” Sebastian says, shrugging with one shoulder, no easy feat with arms remaining bound above his head, smiling.  
  
“Yeah,” Chris murmurs, “same,” and then, lightening the heaviness just enough, “also we’re _so_ gonna play with your toys later, okay? Even the giant purple one?”  
  
“Okay,” Sebastian says right back, and promptly gasps as Chris’s fingers bend and press inside him. “That—there—”  
  
“There?” He tests _that, there_ again. And again for good measure. Sebastian’s hips arch upward, rocking into the penetration, whole body shamelessly craving more. His wrists pull against their restraints, not trying to escape, lost in the flood of tangible sensation. “Chris—”  
  
“Shh,” Chris tells him, “it’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, hang on—” and gets condom on and himself into position in record time, poised above Sebastian, leaning down to carefully lick at parted lips, murmuring words of love, soothing. Sebastian settles under his weight, gazing back at him.  
  
Chris moves, sliding in. Hears the abrupt cessation of breath, and pauses. But Sebastian’s smiling, wrapping a leg around his waist, nodding, voiceless and elated: go on.  
  
He makes the first thrusts slow, as kind as he can, even though his body’s shrieking at him to slam forward, to feel the tight grip of slippery heat around his throbbing cock. His head’s swimming with pleasure, but he needs Sebastian to feel that pleasure too. So he makes it slow.  
  
Sebastian whispers something in some other language, words Chris will never know, and shivers. “Can you…wait…one moment, _vă rog_ …”  
  
“Oh, fuck—are you okay, sorry, sorry—”  
  
“Fine…I’m not hurt, I’m only…please kiss me?”  
  
“Always.” Chris touches lips to shaken sweet ones. “I love you. So fuckin’ much. Whatever you need.”  
  
“Touch me,” Sebastian says into the kiss, and Chris runs a hand over his hip, along his ribs, across his shoulder, tracing muscles and bones, the shapes and lines of him. When that hand brushes along extended arms, pulled up and bound in place, Sebastian sighs and relaxes, newly tranquil, and kisses him back. “Better. You can move.”  
  
“Oh, can I, thank you for that…” Teasing, but he means the gratitude. He thinks Sebastian hears that too.  
  
When he moves this time, Sebastian moves with him, eyes alight and body restless; Chris grins, pulls back, thrusts harder—not much harder, but curious to see what’ll happen—and Sebastian cries his name and matches him thrust for thrust, taking him all the way to the hilt now, opening up for him and then clenching around him, cock trapped between their bodies and leaking messily. Chris can’t hold back now, not with blue eyes so radiant beneath him, and his hips jerk forward and he’s coming embarrassingly fast but that’s wonderful because Sebastian is right there also, screaming his name and coming on the length of Chris’s cock buried inside him, Chris’s orgasm spilling into him. And the world whites out in profound bliss.  
  
Once he can think again, Chris fumbles exhausted elated fingertips up to the battered knot of suspender-elastic around limp wrists. Sebastian moans faintly as he strips the improvised restraints away, and then curls into Chris’s chest, panting, arms permitted motion at last. Chris rubs freed limbs, attempting to ease red marks into a less ferocious shade; Sebastian laughs, a hushed wondering note. “That was…did I say wow, earlier? Because yes. Extraordinarily wow.”  
  
“I love you,” Chris says. “I love you. So much. I. You. Love. Are you…you know…” Are you all right, did I hurt you, are you going to regret this, are you already regretting this, please look at me and be okay.  
  
“You, me, love. Yes.” Sebastian stops regarding the marks to throw him a smile. Illuminating the room. Chris’s apprehensive heart. The universe. “I’m happy.”  
  
“…good?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris says, breathing out, feeling the warm contented weight of Sebastian cuddled up next to him, both of them sticky with lube and come and sweat and afterglow. “Yes.”  
  
“Yes, then.” Sebastian puts his head on Chris’s shoulder. “Ah…we may be somewhat late for dinner.”  
  
“I’ll call and see if we can move the reservation,” Chris announces, floating in a cloud of euphoric certainty that he can, he can do anything, with Sebastian at his side. _They_ can do anything. They can face down every haughty restaurant owner and harrowing social obstacle, every melancholy memory of loneliness, together.  
  
Sebastian lifts that head enough to peek at him, smiles, settles back down. “And if it ends up being late, or even impossible for tonight, well. You brought me cronuts. Chocolate.”  
  
“I did,” Chris concurs, and that’s how they end up entwined in Sebastian’s sheets and each other’s arms, suspenders placed neatly atop the bedside table for future experimentation, marks lingering pink and welcome around expressive Romanian wrists. Chris makes a phone call that goes on the whole remarkably smoothly and results in reservations for ten pm instead of eight, and upon hanging up has to laugh at his own irrational apprehension; Sebastian takes his hand and doesn’t laugh but simply feeds him bites of ludicrous sugary pastry, naked in bed and comfortable being naked in bed and licking chocolate from fingers, meeting Chris’s eyes.


End file.
